


Portrait of the Cardassian Domestic: The Essential Love Poems of Kotan Zara

by LyricDreamweaver



Series: The Translated Works of Kotan Zara [1]
Category: Original Work, Star Trek
Genre: Cardassians, Love Poems, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 15:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12729513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricDreamweaver/pseuds/LyricDreamweaver
Summary: While this is a translation of the wonderful Kotan Zara’s (who I could sing nine hundred pages of praise about) poetry, we do home it is simultaneously palatable to a human audience while still conveying a strong Cardassian voice.





	Portrait of the Cardassian Domestic: The Essential Love Poems of Kotan Zara

**Author's Note:**

> My dearest friend Kotan Zara would like to dedicate this to the love of his life, Gul Nokov Dejak.

**I.**

Sometimes, as a poet, 

I feel so helpless 

for I cannot 

commit your handsomeness 

to canvas, 

nor can I sculpt your form 

from clay, 

nor can I construct a gallery 

to house your beauty in. 

As a man, 

I cannot provide you 

with the family you dream of: 

a gaggle of children 

clinging to you— 

their _yadik._

Still, when you enjoy 

a new poem 

I have composed 

about our common-law bond 

or respond to my letter 

with equal love and concern 

that I send off to you, 

it feels as though 

I have done my duty 

as a man 

and as a poet 

and as a Cardassian. 

* * *

**II.**

I know your body intimately, 

as if your skin 

were my own. 

I know every scar 

(from the little lines 

scarring your hands 

to the phaser burn on your thigh, 

the burn covering your ribs, 

the score cutting your lower lip), 

I know every scale 

(every single one and I know 

when you will begin to shed them), 

I know every bone 

(how you broke your wrist 

climbing cliffs in your boyhood 

the ribs shattered 

during your deployment to Bajor, 

just after we met), 

and I know every muscle 

(the strong cords of your thighs, 

sharp planes of your abdomen 

the vice-grip of your hands), 

I know every curve, jut and ridge of you, 

and I know you 

are terribly self-conscious 

about this body 

I have fallen in love with 

Breakfast 

and our home 

filled with our chatter— 

sometimes about nothing at all— 

warm and safe, 

our bed-turned-nest— 

becomes the centre 

of our entire world. 

I loathe letting you go. 

We inhabit vastly 

different worlds. 

I am settled 

at my desk, 

pen in hand. 

You are taking up 

the living room, 

cleaning your rifle. 

But this is our home. 

After-dinner-kanar blossoms 

on our lips, my hands fumble 

with your chest-plate, tunic 

Your hands settle 

on my hips, gently tugging. 

We tumble into bed, 

together and seeking, 

giving and taking, 

loving. 

* * *

**III.**

Each deployment leaves me 

more raw than 

a rough shed. 

Without you at 

my side, 

I feel lost, 

curl up in 

your favourite armchair, 

a thick blanket 

draped over me, like 

a hatchling seeking comfort. 

Yes, 

this is your service 

to the great State, 

but does that mean I 

am not allowed to miss you, 

not allowed to worry? 

How do 

I put my mind at ease 

in the abyss 

between 

sending my letters and 

the moment you reply? 

How can I find peace 

when a piece of me 

is missing, taken far 

from our home, my bed? 

Hot water, 

scented oil, 

and you. 

I trace old wounds 

you tilt your head 

to the side. 

A small line, 

hair-thin scar, 

running over your ribs. 

Domestic bliss comes to an end, 

a sense of duty overriding all else. 

I help you pack your things, 

we ride to the base in silence. 

You refuse to look at me 

ever since you got the summons. 

Will they take you far away, 

I wonder. 

Will you come home to me again? 

I have composed 

three hundred letters, 

each three hundred pages, 

each tossed into the fireplace. 

I know how to express 

my love for you 

and I do it best 

without the words 

but with you beside me. 

* * *

**IV.**

I have always admired 

the shine of your armour, 

black as obsidian 

and sharp - 

like your cheekbones. 

The bodysuit underneath, 

designed to deflect 

the swipe of blades, 

the burn of light phaser-fire, 

hugs your figure tight, 

like I wish I could. 

When you return, 

stained with blood and sweat, 

your armour dented, 

and your eyes distant, 

I want to 

scrub your chest-plate clean, 

work the dents out 

from your armour, 

and bathe you, 

bring you back to yourself 

since you serve our state 

so selflessly 

and so fiercely. 

And yet I am always grateful 

to have your burning warmth, 

your weight returned to my arms. 

The returned you to me 

a broken man. 

You cry out in your sleep, 

clutching at me, 

trembling in the grip of some nightmare. 

I pull a blanket over us, 

draw you nearer to my chest, 

plant kisses on your brow ridge, 

try to hold you together again tonight. 

Lovemaking 

is violent now. 

You grind and writhe 

as if you're trying to empty me 

and live inside 

my hollow skin. 

I clutch you close, 

whisper softly, 

bring you back to yourself. 

The day you turned thirty, 

it was quiet, 

raining softly. 

We spent all morning 

curled up in bed. 

I read to you, 

soothed your nightmares. 

You held me close, 

told me of your adventures. 

* * *

**V.**

We play the long game 

of observation. 

You study the pens 

I prefer, 

the paper 

I lovingly select. 

Come our anniversary, 

you present me with 

a soft hound-skin-bound book, 

a fountain pen with 

a latinum nib, 

fine blue ink. 

I watch the way your 

phaser rifle handles, 

quietly ask around in 

gun shoppes 

I would otherwise 

never visit. 

For the same celebration 

I present to you 

a new laser-scope, 

a larger energy cartridge. 

While you shoot at voles 

like a much younger man, 

a child, really, 

I begin to compose long, 

lyrical odes to you 

I love the nights 

when it is too hot to even touch, 

to wear clothes, 

shedding layers like scales 

and conversing lazily. 

We never tough 

but there is a closeness, an intimacy 

Then you ask me to rub 

icy on your neck. 

You prefer nights 

where a chill creeps in, 

chases us earlier to bed, 

piled high with thick quilts. 

Your body is always hot. 

as if you have a fever, 

and you press close to me. 

Your warmth, breath, skin, scent, 

draws a low purr from in my chest. 

You shed with a temper. 

I serve you a glass 

of kanar 

and ignore your scales 

flaking, 

falling, 

your skin peeling in strips. 

With a whine, you pull 

me close, demanding tenderness. 

* * *

**VI.**

Once, just for fun 

you brought home cobalt makeup 

and the two of us settled 

on the cool tiles of the bathroom, 

cross-legged 

and facing each other. 

Your thumb dips 

into the blue, 

pressing it to my _chufa,_

painting it messily. 

Your index and middle fingers 

dip into the blue, 

coating the second and third 

scales of my throat. 

It is sloppy, 

I can feel it, 

but I lean in 

to kiss you anyway. 

You let me have 

the next turn. 

I make my marks neater 

and, just because, 

paint all the scales 

I can reach 

before they dip 

under your collar, 

cobalt


End file.
